


rum corners

by ferrassie



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-18
Updated: 2012-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-31 09:58:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/342732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferrassie/pseuds/ferrassie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Can hear Kenneth screaming at him. Van 't Schip, too. Feels so small when Jan turns to look at him. Defeat in his shoulders. Hurt in the shine of his eyes. He was right there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	rum corners

He knows he shouldn't, but the seconds are slipping away (his fault) and he doesn't have a lot of options. Jan is just to the right of him. Kenneth behind him. He tries to out-smart the striker in front of him, some seventeen year-old with acne scars along his jaw and quicker feet than his. Last ditch with their feet tangled up.

He's left without the ball.

Can hear Kenneth screaming at him. Van 't Schip, too. Feels so small when Jan turns to look at him. Defeat in his shoulders. Hurt in the shine of his eyes. He was right there.

Thomas wasn't ready for that. Maybe he's not ready for this. Breathes in cold air. Feels Kenneth's stare against his back. His substitution comes too early.

Van Basten pulls him back. Hand fisted in the bottom of his shirt. He holds him close. Thomas ducks his head to listen. "That's not how we play football, all right?"

He lets Thomas go with a gentle shove towards the bench. He goes to the far end. Hates when he doesn't have time to atone for his mistakes.

 

Jan pulls him aside, stuck between the tunnel and the locker-room. Sweat crested at his hairline. He's still short enough that he has to look up at Thomas. His voice is dry and tired.

"You've got to trust that I'll be there. You're not alone, yeah?" He punches Thomas in the shoulder, laugh quiet and disjointed, before he pulls him into a hug. "Remember that."

-

Robin rushes in before he does. It's too new and he knows that it's the same for Robin. This total responsibility. He can hear his voice above everything, above the rush of his own blood. He's not thinking coherently. Tackle, hurt, _fucking idiot_.

Barton's on his feet, now, and Thomas goes towards him exactly like he knows he shouldn't and he says things he knows he shouldn't say, either. Looks past him. Finds Robin's gaze – steel and ice – directed somewhere else. Laurent's hands on his arms. Pulling him back. It doesn't necessarily put a stop to what he's feeling.

 

He waits until Robin's done. Shirt off, socks pushed down. Their conversation is brief – Gervinho's English is non-existent – and coded in hand gestures. Everyone looks a little less grim, but that's nothing. Not with the almost complete silence in the locker-room. Theo clatters around beside him. His mumbling is just this side of incoherent.

Robin sits down on the bench. Shirt in his hands. He closes his eyes for a moment too long and he can see the frustration in Robin's face trying to smooth itself away.

"So?"

Robin makes a noise. His eyes open slowly. Curves his neck away. "Sorted it out. Could have happen to anyone, just happened to him is all." He laughs. "We'll get through it."

Thomas nods. Fingers careful along the outside of Robin's thigh. "We will."

-

It is not fair. Perfect challenge wasn't perfect enough. He can hear van Basten's voice from training – on top of years of training with someone in his ear – telling him not to do this. Not to do that. Keeps his back steady, keeps his boots on. He doesn't look for Jan (some sort of grounding) because the best thing he can do right now is leave the pitch.

Doesn't stop the anger and disappointment from making his hands itch.

 

The sound is satisfying. It fades into the footsteps in the hall. Rushed.

"Thomas! Hey!"

Jan doesn't even turn to look at him. Stares at the shampoo, the soap up the shower wall. Bag huddled and wet in the drain across the room.

Jan's touch is soft against his skin. Voice even. "What the fuck is happening here?" Hand falls down to his own hip. He crosses the room, still in his boots, and crouches down where the shower kit landed. Thomas can barely hear him over the silence.

Watches him put everything back into the kit. Anger still pulsing. Jan hands it to him, a certain look on his face. One that he's starting to reserve for Thomas. His mistakes.

"Throw it out. You can use my stuff." He does what Jan says. "Lucky van ‘t Schip wasn't here to see that or you'd be out longer than a match."

Thomas knows.

-

He stands beside Robin, in front of their own away fans. He's tired and humiliated. Glances over at Robin. His expression is guarded. The armband has slipped under the sleeve of his shirt. They applaud because these people deserve more from them and it's.

It's harder to explain than it should be.

 

"Fuck," Robin says. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

He feels the same way. Robin's had to wait, had to be _that_ person for the entire squad. He can be this for Robin, right now.

He throws his boots into his locker and his fist falls hard against the wood. Thomas winces. Waits. "It's been a fucking mess." The ‘since' is implied, the you-know-who. "I don't know." Jaw tense. "Where are we supposed to go next?"

Thomas shrugs. Pulls at the neck of his shirt. "Up."

Robin laughs.

 

He lets Robin push him into the shower. Frustration obvious. Tile-grid pressed against his back. Pain at the base of his skull when Robin presses his mouth to his too quickly. He bites at his bottom lip and his hands hold Thomas's hips down. Knee pressing between his thighs.

"Thank you," he says.

He threads his fingers through the hair at the nape of Robin's neck. Doesn't say anything. Just goes with it.

-

He can taste the salt on his tongue. Face tear-streaked. It's day-old. He's thankful, at this point, that his parents are at work, his brother in school, and training's scheduled for late this afternoon. He turns over, sheets down around his waist. Sun hot through the blinds.

He falls back asleep. Exhaust of defeat still evident, everywhere, in his body.

 

Thomas groans when the phone rings. He doesn't know what time it is. He doesn't want to know. 

It's Jan. If he has to come to that realisation one more time, he doesn't know. Always there. Two years younger and that grates on Thomas a little. Put together too much.

"It's already two. We have training at three. Where are you?"

There are noises – guys yelling, joking – fitted in behind Jan's voice.

"I, uh. Sleeping." Did that loss to PSV mean nothing to you? Question left hanging. He ignores it because Jan does, too. "You woke me up." He stretches his arm behind his head.

"Well, you better get moving. You're already late. I'm not covering for you." He says something away from the phone. Hand only partway muting the noise. Then, "And, Thomas, it was a loss. They happen. Get over it."

It's almost amusing, the way Jan hangs up. Almost.

-

"Let me drive you home." Still faced with his back. Voice more commanding. "Robin." He grabs hold of him by the arm, but Robin doesn't stop. "Robin."

Thomas almost runs into him. Only sees the side of his face, a piece of his expression. "All right."

His car's in the lot, too.

"Okay."

 

"You're not the whole team, you know." Robin has to hear it. Derbies. The Derby. Can't only blame himself. Counterproductive.

Robin looks at him. His breath cold, visible. "I know," but his voice suggests that he doesn't. "I don't need you to tell me that."

Thomas reaches out. Hand on Robin's wrist. "Hey." Robin doesn't respond to him. "Hey, no." Skin hot under his touch. "Robin, no."

Robin gives him with a look. _Upset_ etched into his brow. 

"Goodnight, Thomas."

-

"You'll do fine," Jan tells him. He seems unconcerned. Headphones pushed off his ear, magazine in his lap. The city passes by in the window behind him. "The Boss wouldn't have given it to you if you weren't ready."

Thomas leans back in his seat and takes a deep breath. In through his nose. Runs his fingers over the leg of his pants. He's not supposed to have nervous ticks anymore.

Jan turns a page. "Just fine."

 

 _I told you so_.

Thomas can see it in Jan's face. First win, a comfortable win. The atmosphere – the noise and the feeling – it's. It's what he wanted. What he wants for the next time and the next time and the next time.

He flushes when Vurnon slaps him on the shoulder. Burn spreading. "Good job, captain."

-

The conversation is awkward. He's angry and Leekens isn't sympathetic. Thomas understands to a point. A few months mean more than a year though, now, apparently. He thinks that shouldn't matter. Didn't make it to the Euros, anyways.

Yet.

Ankle injury. Two months out. He looks down at where he's bandaged up, foot tight and stiff. Just a precaution. Still every bit as dedicated. He's already been green-lighted, already gotten back on the pitch. This doesn't help. Says as much.

He takes a deep breath and puts the phone down as gently as he can.

 

"So," he starts.

Robin stops him. "You deserve more than that, you know. But you're still captain where it counts."

Bites his lip. Shrugs his shoulders.

"I am."

He doesn't need to look up to see Robin's face, his expression.

 

The armband is placed neatly on top of his kit. Bright yellow. Robin on the bench. Beside him in the locker-room. Training jacket zipped up to his chin.

He nudges Thomas's side. "See."

-

The smile Jan gives him, it's exactly how he feels. It's not going to get easier, but for a moment (right now) it feels like it has. Like he doesn't have to worry. Worry about alternatives.

"You're next, you know." Because Jan should hear it, too. His smile slips a little, but it's back in place almost instantaneously.

"This is about you. You first." He doesn't sound sad or anything. Quietest self-confidence Thomas has ever known. Really.

He pulls Jan into a hug. "Thanks."

-

He looks at Robin, standing out in front of his bedroom. Looking out at London and Thomas almost wishes they were somewhere else. Germany, France, Greece. Coming home with a win but that's not the point. They're through to the last sixteen. That's what matters.

And Robin. Robin matters. What's between them matters. He touches Robin's shoulder and he leans into Thomas's touch. Likes seeing Robin this happy.

He kisses the curve of Robin's ear. His hairline. Hand soft against the back of his neck. Can see the curl of Robin's lip and he buries his face in his neck. Hands sliding down to his stomach. Feels his blood humming.

"This is good," Robin says. Goosebumps under the soft pads of Thomas's thumbs. "All of it's been good lately."

"No, it hasn't." But Thomas doesn't let go. Fingers skimming, dipping. Missing.

**Author's Note:**

> ia. the jan mentioned is jan vertonghen. he joined ajax's youth system in 2003, a year before thomas was promoted to the first team. jan followed three years later. it probably stands to reason that they didn't play together, but hey. creative licence. both are routinely called up for the belgian nt.  
> ib. the kenneth mentioned is kenneth vermeer, ajax's current goalkeeper. he was also a fellow youth-teamer.  
> ii. based on what i could cobble together from wikipedia, john van 't schip was jong ajax's head coach and marco van basten, his assistant, in 2003.  
> iii. robin was acting captain during the newcastle match where arsenal drew 0-0. gervinho was sent off, during his debut no less, after reacting to a poor challenge by joey barton. robin was officially appointed arsenal's captain following the match and thomas was appointed vice-captain.  
> iv. arsenal lost 1-2 to tottenham at white hart lane on oct. 2nd.  
> v. thomas was stripped of the belgian nt captaincy in november. he had just come off a two-month ankle injury about a week earlier. he captained arsenal in the cl against marseille on nov. 1st. fudged the timeline a bit, as he was ~officially stripped of the armband sometime around nov. 6th.  
> vi. arsenal went through to the last sixteen of the cl after defeating dortmund 3-2 at the emirates on nov. 23rd.


End file.
